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zushimart · 1 year ago

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crossed wires, UNOFFICIAL ch.3. the scene i was writing quickly spun into something else that doesn't fit into the rest of the somewhat already written and planned storyline. i wanted to post it anyways, since i do like how it came out. it's really cheesy. miscommunication, hurt and (immediate) comfort, fluff, suggestive undertones. m!spiderman!reader x civilian!scara. childhood friends to lovers. 2.3k words. warnings: ummm mild conflict caused by miscommunication. scara raises his voice, but quickly regulates his anger. he also cries, but is soothed. nothing bad. read ch.1 here. read ch.2 here.

two and a half minutes later there’s a pounding on scara’s window that frightens him out of the chair and onto the floor. he looks up from the runner rug he landed on to see a face sat on the fire escape, a grin stretching across lips. curses spill out of his mouth as he gets to his feet and leans over the desk pressed up against the wall to unlock the window. “what the fuck?”

“yanked down the ladder. faster than buzzing,” he says. “and you gave me a time limit.”

“that was self imposed,” scara snaps, standing on his tippy toes and stretching his body to try and peer over the boy’s shoulder. “did you pull it back up? the landlord’s gonna call the cops.”

“oh, so when i’m early, i’m scolded and when i’m late, i’m scolded,” he says, rolling his eyes and pushing scara out of the way to crawl onto the desk and into his studio apartment. scara takes another look and can see the stairs folded up, looking untouched. a sigh of relief follows.

“misattribution of my irritation,” scara says, slamming the window closed hard enough to rattle the walls of his glorified closet. he turns around to see him toeing his shoes off politely with his head bowed… until he opens his mouth and sours the courtesy:

“real big words for such a pretty face,” he says, dodging when scara swings. “i’m joking!”

“bad joke.”

and he bursts into giggles, pulling a squirming scara into a bone-crushing hug before the boy can think of interrogating him for his impossibly sudden appearance. “you’d die without them,” he mumbles, pushing his cold nose into scara’s neck. he’s clawing at his arms, trying to pull them off, but they tighten like vines.

“what the fuck is this for?” scara asks, strained as he’s lifted off his feet. the question goes ignored and the air punches from his lungs from the force of the next squeeze.

the boy’s voice is suddenly serious, “you can handcuff yourself to me,” he says.

scara’s face flushes red as a cherry. “don’t make it sound weird,” he admonishes, tone pitching up. he gives one last kick of his feet before he surrenders, going limp as a doll. he quietly hopes the slamming beat of his heart is not as loud as it is in his ears.

“no, it’s a good idea,” the boy mumbles, lips brushing against the sensitive shallow above scara’s collarbones. his eyes widen as a shiver slides down his spine, followed by delicate fingertips tracing the ridge of the bones of his back lower and lower–– which means he’s being held up by the strength of a single arm. the revelation sizzles scara’s brain, restarting a few times from the electrical overload as lips ghost skin again, “i could keep you safe.” and scara realizes there’s a warm heat pooling in his stomach and a pathetic noise crawling up his throat… he panics, swallowing it as he flails wildly once again with a real strength this time. he’s dropped unceremoniously onto hardwood and he curses, rubbing at his tailbone. “sorry,” says the perpetrator with the gall to look sheepish.

“i-i’m still mad at you,” scara says, cringing at his own petulance. “don’t think you’ve distracted me with whatever… that was. acting like a guilty dog.”

he puts a finger to his lips and hums. “maybe a leash instead?”

“gross!” scara exclaims, kicking a foot out and making contact with his shin. there’s a sharp, sucking gasp as he keels over onto the floor. “f-freak,” scara stutters, mostly to himself as he tries to banish images the swift mind conjures.

after a minute of letting the pain dissipate, he opens his mouth again: “what are you mad about? yesterday?” he asks from where he lay, forehead still glued to the floor in defeat. “i’m sorry. that was shitty.”

“where did you go?” scara demands.

“around. i got you something,” he says, fishing around his pocket. “my apology gift.” scara almost groans. maybe mona was right, he had a boyfriend with none of the perks and all of the disappointment.

he gets into a sitting position across from scara and drops a small ball of tissue paper on the floor with excitement gleaming in his eye. scara reaches a tentative hand to take it and begins to unwrap. careful not to rip the delicate tissue, he reveals a strip of silver that catches the ambient light. he peels the piece out and it sits like a dime in his palm.

the little charm is quickly warmed by the heat of his hands. he eyes it closely, noticing the delicate carving of their initials sitting together. “did you make this?”

“mn,” he affirms with a smile.

it’s a replica from the past of a dime-turned-pendant the two traded as children before scara tied it to a bridge on a summer trip in paris with his step-mother.

he was proud, at the time, to declare his friendship as important as everyone else’s with the pendant’s leather cord knotted around a metal bar like the locks beside it. yae even helped guide his swiss army knife into the soft metal of the coin till chicken-scratch letters were married to each other. she took a photo for him, sent it to the other boy’s mom, too. until he grew up and realized the pendant was wrapped around a love lock bridge meant for people who kiss. and it was brought up to tease him. over and over.

“are you making fun of me?”

“what?” he asks, face falling.

scara’s heart races. “the jokes, the hug, this,” he starts, bile burning the back of his throat.

“what do you mean? why would i make fun of you?”

“y-you make fun of me all the time!”

“so do you!” he exclaims. “but why would i do it now?”

“what is this for?” scara asks, clutching the metal in his fist.

the eyes across from him widen. his throat bobs. he fidgets with his hands when he answers, “you seem worried… that i don’t care about you.”

scara’s face twists into a grimace as frustration surges like high tide. he can hear it in his ears as pressure constricts his temples. “what do you think i’m upset about? be clear.” and while previous blades had been blunt, like wooden sticks to spar with, these words are sharp.

the boy takes a resigned breath and opens up, uncrossing his arms and sitting with his legs spread. “that i’m late? i miss plans? i don’t text back?” he asks with a tilt of his head, the uncertainty dripping off his voice is like kerosene.

“no!” scara almost shouts as his temper ignites. his voice only climbs higher and higher, “why– you’re– you don’t even know what i’m… that’s not what i’m––” scara catches himself when the boy across from him flinches. taking a deep breath, he recalls nahida’s warm whispered prayers, i will be kind and gentle to every living thing. focusing on the weight of the drop of metal in his hand, he rubs it with his thumb, pressing flesh into the shallow channels of their initials. the flame dampens.

“that’s not what i’m upset about,” he says, settled.

then comes the exceedingly careful question, uttered like a plea: “what are you upset about?”

“i’m worried about you,” scara spills. “you won’t tell me what you’re doing, and it frustrates me, but it’s not a jealousy thing or a snubbed thing, it’s a… my b-best friend is suddenly skipping classes and he’s never done that before… thing,” the words tumble out of him, “and he shows up with bruises, and he texts me this cryptic shit like he’s on the run. and he’s not the kind of guy to disappear without telling anyone, but he keeps disappearing without telling anyone!” he says, drawing up into himself with crossed arms and an avoidant gaze like he can protect the physical while revealing the underbelly of his mind. “i’m upset because i’m scared that maybe you’re in... that you're in trouble! or something. and you won’t let me help. my best friend won’t let me help,” he says, opening his palm to take a look at the coin. “s-so, to me, this doesn’t… this doesn’t mean anything,” scara surmises with a frown and tosses it back to the other boy.

he catches it between his fingers. the nonchalance in his movement feels like a sleight against scara’s bumbling vulnerability. and as the climax of his words peters, the two fall into an unnameable silence. even the upstairs neighbor has retired with the absence of creaking footsteps from the ceiling above them.

despite this, he still searches for scara’s gaze. “do you think it’s your fault?” he asks gently.

“what?” the question is soft in his nervousness as he denies his eyes.

“do you think it’s your fault i won’t tell you?”

an admission of something, he notices, but the confirmation is overshadowed by the surgical precision of his question. in fact, his body reacts much quicker than a thought can form. his vision goes blurry and he blinks only to feel fat tears track down his cheeks. horrified, his sweater-covered palms vigorously wipe at his face and press down on his eyes, but like a burst levy, water flows. “is it my fault?” he asks, voice thick and bottom lip trembling.

“no,” he answers. he sounds closer. scara looks up to see him an arm’s length away. “it’s not. you know, you would be the first person i’d tell. if i could. you’re the only one who’s noticed,” he says. “noticed enough to make me admit something.” and he pokes a bit further: “noticed enough to cry about it.”

“s-shut up,” scara says, wiping at his face, but he does nothing to push the reaching hand away. the front of his loose sweater is fisted and pulled, but the material’s give does nothing to move him. instead, he takes the invitation by guiding himself into this new seat and wrapping his legs around a waist, arms around a neck. he forgoes the natural pillow of the other boy’s chest in favor of the reverse, guiding the other’s face into the same position as before –– lips and warm breath brushing scara’s collarbones –– a choice made to keep the illusion of control. no other reason. “you’re not lying, right?” scara asks, re-propping the ghost of his mental guard despite revealing the softness of his body.

“besides omission. and the shit i say sometimes… to cover. i don’t like lying. s’why i’m so bad at it,” the words are muffled against scara’s neck, sending tingles up his throat.

“and whatever… you’re doing. it’s dangerous?”

scara can feel his face squeeze around before he answers. ��yeah. sure, yeah.”

“ridiculous,” scara mutters under his breath and gives the boy a pinch. “nahida loves you like a son, you know, she could help… somehow,” he mumbles. “and if you needed something crazy… like, anything… i could just… i would even call… her,” scara trails off. “if you needed me to.”

“what? just kill me if i do something stupid enough to warrant ei intervention.”

scara hums. “recently… she’s been a lot nicer,” he says.

“oh really?” he asks, shifting his weight and almost toppling them both. scara holds on tight, mouth opening to protest as he realizes the boy is about to stand… but he does it, and he does it like it’s easy.

scara swallows hard, really hard, as he’s carried to his bed. “is the thing you’re doing at the gym?” he blurts. “jesus christ, i wasn’t going to say it before, but,” the words get louder and louder in an attempt to drown the more shameful whispers of his mind turning his face red as he’s gently laid in the mattress.

he giggles, “i think it's a side effect." he presses a knee against scara's side and his eyes dart to the movement.

scara's almost disappointed when he pushes off to fall beside him and not on him, but the feeling is tempered by vines reclaiming his waist as a chest presses flush against his back. his head stuffs with cotton, edges of his vision softening.

and suddenly, he finds the plausible deniability laced through their years-long intimacy to be a bit cruel and unusual.

i should tell him to stop, scara thinks. he doesn’t know what he’s doing. he opens his mouth, but the betrayal of his brain leads to him detailing recent maternal events instead. among other things, too, like a plan for their report due the following week and how nahida’s bought him his favorite tea from a traditional shop or how he almost got hit by a car (earning a bone-crushing squeeze reminiscent to the one he was greeted with) and how spiderman is actually kind of awkward (a disappointed sigh) until the quiet attentive hums fade into whispers of a murmur, and then they die completely.

scara twists his head around, wiggling the velcro grip loose till he’s nose to nose with a softly snoring face.

he reaches down to feel around the boy’s wrist, slipping a finger under the leather strap and tugging it off. the ordeal takes three slow minutes, but the fruit of his labor is the pendant returned without having to ask.

he slips the bracelet onto his wrist. “i like it,” he whispers to the unconscious figure beside him. “thank you.” that counts, scara thinks to himself as he flops back around. right? he lets his mind guide him in dizzy circles, fighting sleep by the light of the lamp on his nightstand. he isn’t anxious, though… not in the steady presence of this other body in his bed, and that is enough.

#tbh i might start crossposting to ao3 #espesh since this is like long enough to justify posting ovr there #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #scara x reader #did u guys see my little mixed media feature #texted myself tbh #ok littterally leave feedback if u want or whateverr #PLEAS GOAWDD PLEASS #sorry if this is really messy this is literally an au of my au AGHHGAHAHA

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